Late-Night News
by filthiestofweebsdesu
Summary: Slade finds out about Nightwing’s assassination (attempt, but he doesn't know that). Inspired by the infamous "Ric Grayson" arc.


It was a quiet night - he was merely gathering intel today, for his own benefit - but this month had been hectic, what with unprepared employers and a high-profile assassination butchered (through no fault of Deathstroke's own), so he couldn't really complain. In fact, he relished it; it was just enough to keep his mind busy, off of the things he didn't like to think about in the stillness of the night, without the stress that usually accompanied a big hit mission. (He never felt remorse, of course. But he really, _really_ did not like some of the kinds of people that tended to accompany his line of work, and though he'd never say it aloud, he had to be cautious so as not to overstep his bounds sometimes, and that was definitely a stresser. Most people were sensible enough to fear him, but every once in a while he'd get hit up by one of those guys that just didn't think they could be touched by anybody, and weren't afraid to try and kill even Deathstroke the Terminator himself if he made what they deemed to be a wrong move. Most of them would probably fail, yes, but he liked to steer clear of those kinds of situations whenever possible anyway, because you never know, and Deathstroke of all people knew just how _easy _it could be to snuff out the hardest of souls when they didn't see it coming.)

The man in the mask sat in stillness atop his skyscraper perch, binoculars in hand, peering through the glass down at his source of intel five stories below, three buildings down. He still didn't move when he sensed a presence creeping up behind him (though not daring to come _too _close, evidently). After a moment, he decided he should at least break the silence, his body still a statue and his single eye still focused on his targets below.

"I'm not killing anybody tonight, Batman. This is an observational mission. No sense in wasting your time or energy stopping me. Surely you didn't come all the way from Gotham to do just that?"

But the presence behind him more or less ignored his question, instead asking - no, _demanding_ \- in a half-yell, _"__who hired you?"_

Deathstroke had to admit to himself, that did take him by surprise a little - Batman yelling was common, but it wasn't often a tactic he used _right off the bat _so to speak, at least not around him - he was a man of tact, and liked to assess his situation first, after all.

But Deathstroke didn't let on to his surprise, and without opening his mouth, he let out a low, amused chuckle. "Many people have hired me, Batman. You'll have to be a little more specific than that."

If Batman wasn't shouting before, he definitely was now. "Don't play _stupid_, Slade! _Who ordered the hit on Nightwing?!"_

And then there was a cold, sharp, unsettling silence between the two of them, before the statue replied lowly.

"...what?"

(And on any other day, maybe The World's Greatest Detective would have noticed the slight chill, the _dread_, creeping somewhere deep underneath the surface of Slade's voice. But today wasn't any other day. The bat was distraught, and distracted.)

Time seemed to freeze for another minute before Slade spoke again, turning his head slightly this time.

"How?"

And then he saw it coming, but didn't move to stop it when the man in the cape suddenly had him pinned down to the rooftop by his neck.

"I don't have the patience for your games tonight!" Batman screamed at him. "You _KNOW_ him, you'd be the _FIRST_ person someone would hire for the job! Now TELL ME," he punctuated _tell_ with a hard shove to the ground, _"__WHO. HIRED. YOU?"_

Bruce expected the mercenary to laugh, or tease, or otherwise toy with him the way that Deathstroke does. What he didn't expect was for Slade to actually sound _defensive_. It was an edge that Bruce almost didn't recognize, coming from him - it was foreign somehow, and he couldn't place precisely _why_, because it wasn't like the words themselves were out of character.

"For your information _Batman_, you couldn't pay me enough to kill a bat. It's simply not worth the trouble it invites. Your actions now attest to that fact, do they not?"

Batman didn't respond, but he also didn't let go, so Slade continued.

"Now, a word of advice, Batman? I don't think it's so _wise_ to go around accusing the first baddie that pops into your head of assassinating your little sidekick. If I wanted to, nothing would be stopping me from telling Blüdhaven's entire underground that the bird is no longer a threat. Lucky for you, sending them into a frenzy would just so _happen_ to inconvenience me. But you'd do well to remember what I've just told you. Honestly, Bats, you're smarter than this."

That earned him a trademarked bat glare if Slade ever saw one (which, of course, he definitely had). But even so, he gingerly let Slade go, backing away slightly. He seemed to have difficulty looking Slade in the eye now.

So the mercenary slowly stood, deciding to speak again before Batman had a chance to flee - or fight. "Tell me what you know, and I can help you find the one who did this."

And _that_ caught the bat off guard. "Why?" He asked quietly, eyeing Slade suspiciously from somewhere underneath the cowl.

"Because as much of a _nuisance_ as that boy is," Slade began, a particular venom to the word _nuisance_, "this city will fall apart without him. That's not something _I'd_ sit down and be contented with, would you?"

The bat studied him for a moment. "Since when do you care if the city falls apart?"

"Since it destroys my income." Now, that wasn't really _entirely_ true if Slade was honest with himself - he could move to a neighboring city where the economy would still be (relatively) intact. But that would be a hassle, more trouble than it was worth, and it wouldn't solve the problem of increased competition - no Nightwing meant more assassins roaming free on the streets, and assassins weren't something one would necessarily hire locally. Yes, that was definitely the reason he wanted revenge on whomever it was that had tried to murder the vigilante. So what if petty revenge wasn't his style? This was his _livelihood_ they were talking about, and he had every right to be a little angry, right?

After considering the man's words for several moments, Batman released a hushed sigh of resignation. To most, his demeanor would probably read as standard brooding Batsy, but Slade noticed how his hands were balled into fists by his sides, how his eyes bore into the ground as he spoke. His voice was tired now, strained, and he suddenly seemed much older than Slade assumed he probably was.

"Nightwing and I were responding to a signal call in Gotham. He was...shot...through the skull, from an apartment building near police headquarters. No I.D. on the rifle, but it was probably custom, had a silencer. A man on the top floor was found strangled, so the police assume that was where the shot came from." He seemed to consider something for a moment, before adding, "the commissioner and I were both on that roof that night, it would have been _easy_ to take us all out. Nightwing was definitely the target."

"I see." Slade paused for a long moment before continuing, almost carefully.

"...I'm assuming he's dead?"

Batman didn't answer, but simply _(not-so-simply)_ responded with a cold and _heavy_ silence, uncharacteristic even for him. And to Slade, that was just as good as an enthusiastic "yes." _(And the mercenary would eternally deny to himself how far he felt his stomach drop in that moment.)_

No one without Slade's enhanced sense of hearing would have heard the way Batman swallowed before he spoke, the way he hushedly steadied his own uneven breathing.

"You'll contact me if you find anything."

"You have my word."

Seemingly satisfied with that, the man in the cape gave a curt nod, before bounding off and disappearing into the night.

And Deathstroke did keep his word. Keeping the perpetrators alive and intact wasn't part of the promise.


End file.
